


Original Work - Lichtales/Rest In Pieces?

by astudyincastiel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Necromancers, Original Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyincastiel/pseuds/astudyincastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of an original Fantasy concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Necromancers are usually the bad guys, right? But why?
> 
> More one word prompt fills.

_05/31 - esp. not good_

I was wrong about the wolves. The ones near here are particularly scrawny looking, and as such, showed no hesitation whatsoever when faced with Roderic. Well. Until they got a taste of him, at any rate. I don't think the ones that got away will be lasting very long.

The buggers got three of his fingers and most of his upper left arm. Thankfully, he appears not to notice, but I haven't a clue when we'll run across something I can suitably replace them with.

Poor bastard already looks as though I've sewn him together out of half a dozen others; it's what's inside that counts, I suppose. Not that...most of that is original stuffing either.

Three more squirrels exploded this morning; I wish I hadn't dropped that book last week. It's probably kindling by now. It shouldn't be so hard to bind my vision to the obnoxious little things, but they keep going up in flames. I must be pronouncing something wrong. What's worse is I can't even raise them to try again; exploded is not an understatement.

I'm starting to smell like...Nevermind. This is going to make it much harder to find a decent place to stay unless we come across a river soon.

Before I forget;  
\+ butcher's twine  
\+ witch hazel  
\+ six yards of linen  
\+ horse (dead or dying)  
\+ whiskey  
\+ shovel and/or axe

It's quite possible that, in the future, someone will come across this notebook and, with expectations high, crack it open to read it only to find my shopping lists and a tally of how many stray body parts have been falling off my companion lately. The look that is sure to pass over their pale, pasty face will be priceless; it brings me a strange sense of joy.

-EA


	2. POV Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of an original Fantasy concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, but the initial First Person POV test I wrote with Elias.

Roderic, V. T. Roderic 'Rest with your pieces', had apparently lost his arm in a mining accident. I really do have no idea about what goes on in mines except to say that I'd rather not find out, and I've often wondered what could have ripped a limb clear off a man as large as Roderic. That it seemed as if he'd been put out of his misery by one of his fellow workers instead of expiring from the trauma suited me immensely; it showed stamina, determination, and an all around healthy specimen despite the obvious injuries.

Besides, it's hardly any work at all to re-attach a limb, and as the wound that finally did him in wasn't anywhere near the one organ he'd actually be needing, a few stitches took care of that as well. Good as new. Better, even; most things are better once they've been dead for awhile, but I realize that seems to be a personal preference.

That was, oh let me see, nearly six years ago now, that I found that little makeshift burial site and dug him up. Backbreaking work, in those days; I'm really not one for manual labor, never have been, but you have to do what needs done, don't you, when you're alone. Ever since that night he'd thrashed back into consciousness in that abandoned mine shaft, he's been an invaluable companion. Not the brightest one, mind, or terribly big on conversation, but he's far easier to take care of than a pack horse, and I don't have to pay him to shut up and dig. If he had been intelligent before his death, I'll never know, but his ability to take orders wasn't damaged by his traumatic experiences, and unlike even the best trained dog, he stays where I put him until I say otherwise.

A big, bald, slightly droopy dog; an unappealing thought, even for me. I'm sorry.

At any rate, 'staying' was what I was currently discussing with him. Sometimes, but not often, it was possible to see that *something* of the man he used to be was lingering inside that thick, mildewy skull of his. There was something about the woods outside the desolate village of Colm that made him instinctively nervous. Wolves maybe, but even the most desperate wolf wouldn't bother to attempt taking a bite out of something as long-dead as Roderic; I invite them to try, however, as I really could use the skins. Or maybe, though the idea is ridiculous, he was concerned for my well-being.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that people like me, that is, people of my particular professional persuasion, aren't looked kindly upon. I've had my fair share of run-ins with townsfolk who'd rather I take my dark and evil ways elsewhere, and I quickly learned my lessons. As soon as you start to *look* like a Necromancer, you've automatically hindered yourself in the worst possible way. Of course, hiding it isn't always easy or possible, but it never hurts to try. And now, since I do still require food and the occasional bath, it's in my best interests to keep trying; be unassuming, seem harmless, and leave any undead companions someplace out of sight.

Which was why I was attempting to get my aforementioned undead companion to stay in the grove of trees like a good little minion. It's incredibly hard to explain to someone with the mental capacity of carp that not moving is the best help they can afford. Even more difficult when they can't talk back to explain why they are being so frustrating in the first place; I would have tied him to a tree if I thought it would keep him there.


	3. Expectation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of an original Fantasy concept.

The town of Colm has a problem. A serious problem, as opposed to poor waste management, bandits, or an influx of deer. The fact that no one there could tell me when it had started or who might have been responsible left me with the queerest feeling that the place had been built on top of the problem and everyone had just learned to live with it. So serious is this problem that at first they whole population urged me to leave and find somewhere else to spend the night.

Would that I could have, but most other people have been smart enough to settle as far away from them as possible; I was lucky to find them at all.

Their problem is thus: every night, without fail, their seemingly quaint little town is overrun by the undead. It has been the way of things as far back as anyone can remember, and I did speak to a few residents that were quite old. Anyone left outside in the evenings runs the risk of not returning home, though the horde has ceased breaking into residences the past several years. That is, I suppose, the silver lining.

Colm's graveyard is much to small to support the numbers I've been quoted, but no one can give me any information of where else they would be coming from. It's terribly hard to sort things out when I have to make sure my questions are suitably vague; it wouldn't do for anyone in their situation to find out what I am. It doesn't take much of a leap to see me as the cause of all this, now does it?

Sara Carson is the proprietress of the town's inn; an attractive enough young woman, with light hair and appealing bone structure. Despite her being one of the first people to suggest that I leave, she has, apparently, made it her duty to escort me around the town during my inquiries, and was one of the only few not to shake their head sadly when I implied I might be able to help them. The way she looks at me, however, is very disconcerting. Shy smiles and doe eyes; her expectations of me tremendously high, and I have no doubt that if I failed to come back she would actually cry.

Looking at my reflection in one of the inn's windows, I can't even being to imagine what she sees; I'm not much to look at, even when viewed as a slightly malnourished normal person. Her attention makes me nervous, and I almost wish people were throwing stones. At least I know how to deal with that. Still, there's only a few more hours until nightfall, and then I can leave her flirting behind, and hopefully get to the bottom of all this nonsense.

If not, well, at least the company will be better.


End file.
